comicadventuresfandomcom-20200215-history
2013-10-06 - Night Visitor
It's 3AM. A good hour. A quiet hour. When the halls are dark, as are the bedrooms. And, those same bedrooms filled with young heroes, who are dreaming dreams, and comfortable, and safe in the beds provided to them. It is this same hour in which utilizing sublime silence, a tall, powerful figure presses, lightly the door open to one America Chavez's room. Closes the door behind himself. The orange, and dark blue costume masks him well. And, he seems to have no difficulty in seeing in the darkness, having already let his eye grow accustom to it. And, the man, armed with multiple weapons, guns, and knives, even a sword, finds a chair in the room. He quietly picks it up, moves it to the foot of America's bed, sets it down, and sits in it. And, he waits. There's not long to wait given the fact that America always was a light sleeper. It was comfortable here, and usually safe, but that didn't get rid of years of having to live cautiously watching over her shoulder just in case. The sound of a chair being set near her bed while someone sits has her eyes fly open. They're already watching. "The fuck are you doing in my room?" And who the fuck was he? "Good," states the voice from the man. As America's eyes adjust, she'll see the maks, split, horizontially from someone whose never graced the halls of either the Academy, or the Mansion before. "I would have been disappointed if I had to wait." His voice is relaxed. Smooth, almost. And unpreturbed. He leans back, then in the chair, as if he were getting comfortable. "An easy question. Doing what I was asked to do." He offers nothing more than that, however. And, makes no move to show either aggression, force, or violence. He seems perfectly content upon that chair, eyes behind the mask fixated on America's face. "Stark is slacking. I really thought he would have more security than this." "I don't play bullshit games, chico. Who are you, who sent you, and what do you want?" America sits up letting the cover of her sheet fall off revealing she was fully dressed beneath except for her shoes. Those were by the side of the bed ready to be put on at a moment's notice. "This is a school, not a military facility. And Stark's in the middle of rebuilding it to begin with." Why was she defending Tony? Her arms cross over her chest as she regards him with an eyebrow raised. Waiting for the answers to her questions. Perhaps the slow realization will come that the man is not eyeballing her form, and neither surprised or disappointed at her state of dress. Instead, he seems to be more intent on watching her face. The movements of her body, rather than the body itself and any curves that went along with it. "A school," repeats the man, with a disdainful sneer in that tone. "Yes. I'm aware of exactly what it is. It is Tony Stark's attempt to peace together the world that he helped his father to destroy; to create the need for men such as me. It helps him sleep better, at night. Thinking he's buying his salvation. The sad thing is, he buys into his own propoganda." Then the man answers, "I've got a few names. Deathstroke. The Terminator. Slade Wilson. The man who paid me sent me. And I'm here, to see if you're worth my time." "In otherwords not my business. Except I am apparently your business right now so..." America shrugs slowly only to narrow her eyes at him. Her gaze was unflinching even though she sits on the bed as if she'd just woken up--Because she had. The corner of her lips twitch with obvious irritation. "I don't like unexplained visitors. If you want to fight, I'll be happy to take your head off for waking me up." "That wouldn't be very smart, on your behalf," points out Slade, with a gentle rebuke. "Afterall, I just came here to talk, America." The mask he wears is unusual, the blue section of the mask seeming to have it's eye-hole lacking, and simply where there would be an eye, only blue. The orange half's eye is simply 'open'. The singular eye is all of his flesh that's revealed. "It could become your business, however. And I think you want it to be your business. But let's start out with something more interesting, shall we? Tell me what you know about yourself. Your past. Where you come from." These words spoken as casually as if he were talking to an old friend, confidence, measured, behind them. Interest, too. Genuinely interested in the answer to such a query. "Except you're not talking a whole lot so get to it, chico." America crosses her arms over her chest with a scowl that only deepens as he finally DOES ask questions. Her eyes narrow, and a deep breath is drawn in. It's let out long and slow as she mutters, "Doesn't matter. Here and now matters. I'm not even from this universe--And I don't talk about my past." "You didn't talk about your past," corrects Slade, mildly. Then, he has the audacity to cross his legs, setting his ankle upon his knee and sling his arm casually across the back of the chair. "You do, now. I already know you're not from this universe. I want to know what you remember about that other universe. About where you came from. And, it's really in your interest to cooperate with me. Trust me." Damn. He was right there. America had grown more talkative since relaxing and getting to know people here. Too much. She was also letting her teammates know about her dimensional travel ability as well. Clearly she was slipping. Glowering with annoyance at him she grits her teeth together trying very hard not to simply punch him here and now. THAT was her. Not this... talkative person. "If you're implying I'm from the same dimension as Kang the Conquerer, I can assure you I'm not. If I /were/, he wouldn't have been in one peice to come here." "Interesting." Her threat is measured, "Kang is a dangerous man. But, like most everyone, he is not without faults that can be exploited. Do you know them?" He waves off the question. Then, sliding his foot off his knee, he moves to a standing position, smoothly. And now that America's eyes can adjust, she can see the guns, the pouches on his belt, the sheathed swords, and the ammo bands around his bicep and across his chest. "Is that your final answer, then?" Still, the man makes no manuever to attack, rather it's almost as if he's readying himself to leave. Strangely enough. "Told you I'm not from there so I don't know. Point is I would have fought him if I was." America scowls again with annoyance though her gaze drops to regard the way he's dressed. There were only a few she knew that wore such accessories. A couple she hadn't seen in awhile. It's not a question she asks herself but more a statement as she remarks, "You dress like Batman and Robin." With accessories. Was he from their world, then? Her attention is already back on his face, or what she could see of it, to judge his reaction. Maybe if he tensed she would get some answers for this strange woman herself. "Robin is an interesting conversation piece. Batman, a worthy adversary. Skilled. And, as every bit as meticulous, and resourceful as me. But I am nothing like either of them. Batman refuses to kill those he hunts. I am not limited by that debilitating mindset." His voice cool, methodic, still confident, and still completely relaxed. He turns, as if to make towards the door, "I will tell your father that you're not ready, then. Goodnight, Ms. Chavez." "... What?!" He doesn't make it toward the door before America does. The displaced air from her moving with enough speed to fly that short distance has her there in front of him glowering up at him with hands clenched at her side in the process. "You're lying," she accuses though it's clear by the angered look on her face that she wasn't entirely sure. "I had two mothers. Who ever my genetic donor was or wasn't isn't something I was ever told. There /are/ ways to use the bone marrow of one woman to transfer DNA to another to ensure pregnancy and my mothers did have access to that level of technology." ... Oh, it was something she'd thought of, apparently. Many times. "Of course she did," assuages Slade. He does not move to stop her, or push her aside. Instead, paitently almost, the man regards her, reading her. "If I am lying, then all you need to do is step aside. And you won't have to hear my lies ever again," he suggests, dispassionately. Then, he simply waits, to see what America will do, not arguing his case any further. America purses her lips together tightly. A deep breath is taken, and her hands clench again. It was so much easier to just punch people and right now she was really, really wanting to do just that. With eyes narrowed she demands, "Talk." "I asked you a question first," says Slade, mildly. And, with the ease and confidence of someone who knows exactly what his position is, moves back into the bedroom, and turns the chair around. Sitting in it, he tips it on it's back two legs, against the foot of the bed. And, he waits for the answer to the question she'd evaded previously. America remains standing in front of the door because it at least gave her some sense of feeling in control with the situation. Itw as a false sense she knew but she would take it for now. "... I remember what mi madres did to make our world a utopia. I remember that they ended up smeared across the multiverse when they died to make it a utopia... and I know they set me up to be ruler of it. Otherwise, I left when I was seven. What I do remember was a long time ago." "Yes," agrees Deathstroke, with the airs of someone who was already aware of all of this. "A parent always wants the best for their child." There's a subtle shift of tones to his words, then. As if to imply something behind it; like, perhaps, his reason for being here? Or perhaps understanding of the sacrifice? "And they will do much, to ensure that success." He glances briefly to one side, then the other, then looks back to the girl intent on blocking the door. "And why did you not stay to rule? Do you feel their sacrifice was worthless?" It's not a question of judgement. Exploratory, and curious, more than anything. "This is why I don't talk about my past. People always ask stupid questions like that." America grinds her teeth together again as she regards him only to let out a deep breath that blows part of her bangs out of her face. "I was /seven/. You think a seven year old wants to rule the world? Or cares that much about it? Mi madres were dead. ... That's all that mattered." "Most decisions based on emotions are poor ones," conceeds Slade Wilson. "Your recent actions have your father's attention. I might be able to arrange a meeting. I presume since you're still blocking the door as if that would stop me from leaving if I wanted, that you're interested in the possibility?" Recent actions? Which recent actions though? America runs things through her head a few times though she can't come up with anything in particular that was really outstanding. The flood in Colorado? The small incident with Loki and distracting him with Bacon? Dealing with Intergang's attempt to edge in on New York? There were so many things. America glances to the side with a scowl only to mutter, "You've got me curious." "Bring me back two working pieces of technology from Intergang. Your paths are bound to cross, soon. Consider it my payment, for services rendered. And I take all payments up front. I could get them myself, but," smoothly, and in a fluid, catlike motion the man is suddenly on his feet. "I am more interested in how this plays itself out." And with that, he begins to walk towards the door, as if America were going to just step aside, and let him leave. "Payment?" America's head tilts to the side with an eyebrow raised suspiciously at this point. "I thought you said you were already being paid." She doesn't move an inch and now stares at Slade suspiciously once again. With good reason--She'd been tricked many, many times. "Bullshit, chico. You /are/ lying. I've already confirmed that the dimension you're from is the other world that merged with this one. In all my years of traveling I've never encountered that dimension before. The chances of having a 'father' from that world that managed to navigate all the Mayfly dimensions to just happen on the one Mi Madres and I are from... VERY slim. And now you want me to get you weapons from Intergang, a group of criminals that /both/ worlds have been having issue with." Smirking firmly she steps to the side uncrossing her arms in favor of cracking the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. "I've dealt with better liars than you." "It's your choice," says Slade Wilson, flatly, and with a poker face that'd rival Batman's own. He points out, "I never said that your father was from my dimension," in the same casual manner he's held this entire conversation. "But he is my employer. He paid me to watch you. To assess you. And give him a report on your activities. He did not pay me to give you his name. Or, to arrange a meeting." Then, the man shrugs, "It is not an opportunity you will get, again. I suggest you think about it. Carefully." And, Slade reaches into one of his pouches. Produces a card. Hands it towards America. "That number will work, exactly, for the next nineteen hours and twenty three minutes. If you change your mind, call. After that, the offer is off the table." America takes the card only to drop her gaze down to it a single time. Without hesitation she crumples the card up in her hand and looks back to Slade solidly. "Get the hell out. If I see you again, I don't care who you are or who you know: Your ass is mine." "Tell Stark to get better security." He regards America, "You'll find that I never bluff." And with that, Deathstroke The Terminator moves to leave the room, and with it, the Academy entirely; his purpose, this night served. And, the security will not detect him leaving, anymore than it did when he entered.